


Good Night Kiss

by monaboyd_archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-03-02
Updated: 2004-03-02
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7637890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monaboyd_archivist/pseuds/monaboyd_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is my first venture in this fandom.  Dom's POV but it's hard to tell.  Inspired by a too-recent personal experience (TMI?)  Thanks for reading.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Night Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Shirasade: this story was originally archived at the Monaboyd.net Archive, which was closed in September 2014 due to software issues and a lack of new submissions for several years. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in October 2014. I e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this author, please contact me using the e-mail address on the Monaboyd.net Archive collection profile.

1.  
It seems like a good idea at the time. Hurting him, yeah, you want that, from the moment he walks in the door all smiles and pretend. You were listening to punk rock and you want that over-abundant energy and violence. He wants to sit on the couch and read books.

“You’ve gotten really cynical,” he says at last, putting the book down in his lap. The book you are refusing to be interested in. He looks at you and your muscles all tighten one after another, clench up until you shake, once, and feel your eyes go hard. He’s innocent and concerned and light. “Is something wrong?”

It takes you a long time to answer. You feel heady and rushed. There are things you want to say but you know if you say them you won’t be able to take them back. When you speak it feels cinematic, scripted.

“You only call me when you need something,” you say. “So I’m waiting for you to ask for it.”

He leans back against the couch and crosses his arms over his chest. “Well, when I called you last night I wanted to fuck you, but now I don’t think it’s such a good idea.” You stare at each other. “What do you want?”

“I want to bite you,” you say. “Here.” And your fingers dig into the back of his neck. He stiffens, eyes going wide, but then he shutters his eyelids again.

“Okay.”

He’s always been so willing.

He leans forward across your lap, and you watch your hand glide along with his movements until you can see it braced under his hairline. You remove it slowly, revealing all that empty white skin and the remains of his spine. You bend in until your face is level with him, the heat from him coming off in waves, caressing your nose, making your stomach curdle. His hair brushes softly against your cheek. He breathes lightly in your lap, not really impressed, one of his hands curled absently on your thigh. Maybe he doesn’t believe you, maybe- You bite. You bite down hard in the widest part of his neck. He keens, sinking, and you sink with him still fastened on, biting harder, trying to get your teeth together. His fingers scratch at your inner thigh.

“Mine,” you growl. In your head, maybe, to yourself, but it’s as good as a declaration, as good as a scar. Mine is what the bite means. Mine mine mine.

“Ow,” he hisses, his voice rocky, moved. “Jesus. Ow.”

You let go and start licking, tongue tracing the red edges of the perfect O in the dead center of his neck. He calms slowly. You’re both shaking, and his skin tastes all dusty and sweet and good and familiar to you, like it used to, before you hated each other. And by the time he sighs “This is better” you know you’re going to fuck again.

2.  
In the bedroom he tries to throw you down and you don’t go. Your eyes meet steely and determined. He drops his hands to his sides and you unbutton his shirt slowly, one button at a time. You don’t feel the love you used to, the desire. You want to hurt him. You want to lodge yourself inside and make him understand how you feel when you see him. How you felt the last time you fucked when he didn’t kiss you once and it took you three days to realize it and to feel like a prostitute. That had been at his place where the cold came in strongly through the uninsulated walls and you spent the night shivering, curled away.

When his shirt is off he takes off yours, and then you strip him of his T-shirt. He’s furrier than you remember, dusted in light curly hairs. His eyes and then his hands take in your body, trace your chest and shoulders, play with your nipples. You rub your knuckles on the kinky hair on his stomach. When you find the bed you sink carefully, arms around each other’s waists, mouths together. His mouth feels different, unfamiliar. Without breaking contact you remove each other’s pants. You hear your jeans hit the floor with the heavy chain sound of your wallet and the leather-dangerous whisper of your belt. His pants remain unceremoniously tangled around his ankles.

“Now that you have me naked,” he whispers, “what do you want to do with me?”

He pushes you backwards so he can reach between your legs, and you’re terrified to be on your back beneath him. You heave forward, snarling, and the two of you wrestle across your mattress. You curl around each other, and he’s shoving and you’re snapping, and neither of you is going to lose. He rubs his cock against your stomach and your chest and your nipples, making you weak with wanting. Your hand slips around his belly and grasps it, hot and thick in your palm like it always is. You cry out and so does he, going still. Your other hand dives between his ass cheeks to plant fingertips securely on the hole.

“This,” you say shortly, and bite him on the shoulder. “I want this.”

“So take it,” he answers, rolling onto his hands and knees.

So you take it. You fish lube out of the bedside drawer and the whole time he just crouches there, ass in the air. You don’t know what’s going through his head. Nothing is going through yours. Rage shakes all over you, and you think if you had something sharp you would, if you could tie knots faster you would. You practically rip the condom in half as you roll it on, lube yourself, lube him. You know he hasn’t been fucked since you but he opens so easily, his muscles parting to give you smooth slick heat. Your groans sound alike, your eager “yes”es. For a moment you almost love him again, feeling the gentle intimacy of his insides, feeling him hump back against your hand. But you won’t forget his leaving, won’t let go of his subsequent always-absence. You remember his women, and his false jocularity in public, and the secret loveless fucking that comes after. You remember the day in the park that he left you and you cried and he just watched you until you felt stupid and smeared dirt all over your face when you went to wipe your eyes.

“Give,” you grunt once, dramatically, as you slide in. He gives. Your cock sinks into him and he rumbles, sinking forward on his chin and elbows. You plant a leg beside him and grab him by the shoulder, and you tug him back onto your cock while humping forward. He gasps. You thrust fiercely toward his belly and he gasps again, and your hand winds around his cock and he makes more noise for you. You don’t make any noise at all. His body doesn’t feel safe or comforting or hot. All you want is for him to feel this up in his guts, this heavy present /thing/, and for him to know that it’s you. You want him to feel it the way you can feel him inside, like shards in your chest, like the bottle you broke today in the kitchen. You want him to feel you like you felt all the sharp green glass going everywhere and inevitable. You rock yourself behind him, work up a rhythm that gets him groaning and gasping and crying like pain, and you just keep riding it and not really giving a shit that he’s out of practice, that boys don’t fuck him anymore. Once, when he makes a high-pitched hitching sound, you wonder if you hurt him. So you thrust into that place again, and again.

“I’m gonna come so hard…” he begins and then does, unraveling hotly into your palm. You keep stroking him as he sinks forward, taking you with him, until your fist is crushed beneath his body and the mattress and he twitches as you work his over-sensitive cock, and he curls up and begs “stop stop stop.” But he’s so trashed he can barely talk, and his insides still pump your cock, and you can’t tell if you’ve come or not.

“No,” you say, jerking him once more before letting go. “You’re too easy,” you mock, sliding out of him slowly, so that if it doesn’t feel good it won’t feel good longer. Your cock hits the air and withers. You wipe your hands on his ass, slap him once for good measure, and go to take a shower.

3.  
Under the hot spray, alone, it breaks in you. That you’ve done something violent and stupid and that you want to do it some more. That whatever you once shared with him is dead and trampled and defiled, and after this, maybe forever. You punch the wall of the shower and tile sings satisfyingly in your fist. You’ve been hoping for those times back, dreaming of his love when you dream of him. Dreaming of the other side of the world and all that eerie and thrilled perfection, dreaming of your fortune, dreaming of the past. Maybe now you can’t dream anymore. Hatred and exhaustion have replaced the hoping, and now you’re barely even friends.

He’s still lying where you left him. You come in buttoning up your pants and you stare at him. His body naked and spent and vulnerable like it always is after you fuck. You terrify yourself by not being moved. You sit down wearily next to him.

“Are you okay?” you ask at last. He curls up, his face working pain over his features.

“I don’t feel good,” he grumbles. Fear stabs at your ribs.

“Like physically?”

“Yeah. I feel injured.”

And you suddenly get a thought what if you really /hurt/ him, but no, and how, though you know you could. What if you’ve given him internal bleeding or?.. And your mind reels ahead with getting him to the hospital, and what will you tell his parents, and what will you tell your new boyfriend, and suddenly you’re back from wherever you went when he first arrived at your door this afternoon. You’d wanted to hurt him, yes, but not /really./ Not real hurt, just… play hurt. Metaphysical hurt. Hurt that would scar but wouldn’t wound.

“I’m all right,” he sighs, rolling over and opening his eyes. They meet yours, green and bright and the same. You feel young and stupid and vicious. You hate yourself.

“Sorry,” you say. You put your arm on his shoulder. He watches you curl up over your knees. “The last time we fucked, you didn’t kiss me.”

“At all?” he asks. You shake your head. “Is that what this is about?”

“A little bit.”

He puckers his lips and points. You feel revealed and idiotic, and angry that he thinks this is all it will take. It takes you long, long moments of staring to lean in and kiss him, and when you do his mouth still feels new and weird. You peck him quickly and curl back up into yourself. You like the way it feels to be miserable in your own body. You stare at each other some more in the murky, darkening bedroom light.

“Do you feel better?” he asks.

“No,” you answer, your voice hoarse and dry. “Maybe a little.”

“Then it’s okay,” he says. He covers his eyes with a hand.

He will never let you touch him again.

4.  
When you see him to the door it’s behind you, or so it seems on the outside. You both dress and laugh, and things are light and normal. You eat a pint of ice cream together and talk about jobs. He talks about moving out of town and you want him to, but you know you don’t understand what it really means. You both walk barefoot in the kitchen and you’re afraid he will step on any errant glass that you didn’t clean up. You don’t tell him that you broke the bottle before he got here. You think he might somehow judge you for it. The permanence of ruining little household things almost breaks your heart.

As you unlock the front door the finality hits you, and you wonder again just what the fuck you’ve done. He looks at you, his eyes disheveled, the same eyes he’d get after a long day of shooting. You miss him.

“Maybe Wednesday,” he says. “Okay?”

You nod.

“Buddies, right?” you ask. You lean in and kiss him lightly on the side of the neck. His neck feels tense and long and familiar. You love it. He smiles at you.

“Call,” he says, and you don’t know if he means it or not. He steps into the street buttoning up his coat. You lock the deadbolt behind him. When you turn around you stop for a while, leaning against the door. You look down at yourself. He's left a small red welt from his mouth on your belly. You wonder if he'll remember you by the time it fades.


End file.
